


Though the Skies Fall

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode Related, Friendship, Hope, Introspection, Mayfield, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-25
Updated: 2009-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life after Mayfield could include more choices than House had ever realized.  652 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though the Skies Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Seven (very) short sections, not quite linear in time.

_**Fic: Though the Skies Fall**_  
 **Title:** Though the Skies Fall  
 **Author:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:** House, Wilson.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Warnings:** None.  
 **Spoilers:** Yes, for the Season 5 finale and for the beginning of Season 6.  
 **Summary:** Life after Mayfield could include more choices than House had ever realized. 652 words.  
 **Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **Author Notes:** Seven (very) short sections, not quite linear in time.  
 **Beta:** My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to [](http://verbal-kint10.livejournal.com/profile)[**verbal_kint10**](http://verbal-kint10.livejournal.com/) and [](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/profile)[**topaz_eyes**](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/).

 **Though the Skies Fall**

  
 _  
**(One)**   
_

The first night is quiet, as is the second. It's not until the third night that House hears it.

 _  
**(Two)**   
_

"Needed a change," Wilson had said as he'd pulled into the unfamiliar driveway. And that was all he'd said as he popped the trunk, tugged House's suitcase free, and waited for House to join him on the front portico.

Wilson's new apartment is twice as big as his old one; it faces east, and the morning light comes into both the bedrooms. It's a gentle wake-up call, unlike the rattling of doors and screech of chairs pushed carelessly across linoleum and querulous rising voices he'd endured for three months at Mayfield.

Dinner that evening had been a savory beef stew, spiced with cumin and lemongrass, washed down with a tall cold glass of ... sparkling mineral water. At least, that's what it had tasted like, and he'd spotted the cool green bottles in Wilson's kitchen.

He'd gone to bed after dinner and fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep almost immediately.

 _  
**(Three)**   
_

They discharge him on a Friday. He walks away without looking back.

 _Dear Mom_ , he thinks. _Please don't send me to this summer camp again. The other kids are all crazy and the arts and crafts suck._

 _  
**(Four)**   
_

House spends Saturday on the Internet, researching what it will take to get his license reinstated.

Wilson hovers for a while before House shoos him away, and after that he forgets Wilson's there.

The only person who calls is Cuddy, and she talks to Wilson.

 _  
**(Five)**   
_

On Sunday they play miniature golf at a course near Wilson's new apartment.

House makes a remark about trusting a mental case with a potential weapon, and Wilson searches his face for a moment before shaking his head and snorting out a soft laugh.

After that it's easier.

 _  
**(Six)**   
_

The noise comes again, and House turns his head. It's someone in pain -- he'd recognize that sound anywhere. He thinks about rolling over, burying his face in the pillow, but after a minute he gets up and shuffles down the hall. He doesn't particularly care if Wilson's bad dreams include pink unicorns in tutus dancing on the graves of dead cancer kids, but if he says something embarrassing in his sleep House wants to hear it.

 _  
**(Seven)**   
_

He's kicked the sheets and blankets to the foot of the bed, and House stands there, looking down. The dim light from the street shows Wilson lying on his right side, boxers scrunched up around his ass, t-shirt wrinkled and askew, revealing yet more middle-aged flesh and half a set of false ribs. His left hand's clutching at his pillowcase, fingers wrapped in a death grip around a twist of cloth. This close, the moaning sound is almost a word, but House can't make it out. He thinks about going back to bed. He thinks about poking Wilson with his cane. Both seem as if they would require too much effort on his part, so he sits down, and from there it's easier to lie down than to stay sitting, so he stretches out beside Wilson. Just the dip in the mattress seems to do something, because Wilson's grip on the pillowcase eases and his body relaxes, and he stops moaning.

Curious, House touches his shoulder -- the merest feather-touch, his fingertips barely brushing the thin cotton, but Wilson responds, mumbling something under his breath. House strains to catch it, but it's already gone and Wilson is still, his chest rising and falling in slow, even rhythm.

 _Danny? Or Amber?_ , although of course it could just as easily have been _milk_ , or _barium enema_. He'll never know, because Wilson says he doesn't remember his dreams.

He puts his hand on Wilson's forearm and leaves it there. He thinks he'd never have done this before Mayfield.

He thinks there's no telling what else he might do.

~ fin

 _One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time._  
~ André Gide (1869 - 1951)

  



End file.
